


Vignettes YELLOW

by Nika_Bo



Series: Vignettes [2]
Category: Don't Let Me Go - Harry Styles (Song), Kiwi - Harry Styles (Song), Medicine - Harry Styles (Song), One Direction (Band), Sweet Creature - Harry Styles (Song)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex, Sensuality, Sexual Fantasy, Touching, Underage Kissing, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 09:28:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16426775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nika_Bo/pseuds/Nika_Bo
Summary: When he walks up the path towards her, water droplets like sun-kissed diamonds sprinkled across his wide shoulders, the hair hanging across his eyes until he tosses it backwards with a jerk of his head, pink swim shorts plastered to every contour of his body, her stomach flips in a way that excites yet terrifies her. And she knows. She isn’t sure what it is exactly that she wants. All she knows is that she wants it to be him. Her body awakening, unfolding, blossoming to the full in that very moment.This is the continuation from Vignettes LAKE, The Girl.





	1. Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Something old, something blue, something yellow, something new… Started this a while ago and finally finished it!
> 
> First of all: I do love Kaia and Harry and think they are gorgeous, wonderful, talented people! I am happy that H has found a family away from home in the Crawford-Gerber clan and am sure that he has the most amiable, platonic relationship with all members of the family!!!
> 
> Secondly: this is purely fictional and owed to my twisted, sick, kinky little mind that likes to veer into inappropriate territory every now and then!!
> 
> Thirdly and most importantly: A WORD OF WARNING!!!!!!!!!!!!! 
> 
> This collection of vignettes contains references to the sexual awakening of an underaged person, a gradual development of sensuality and intimacy, little moments and touches that some of you might find upsetting, triggering or altogether wrong considering the age gap and/or relationship between the characters (however fictional) involved! 
> 
> While all pieces deal with sensual moments, the intensity increases with each of them and the pieces 4 to 6 (titled TROUSERS, STAGE LIGHTS and LEMON POSSET) straight up depict sexual actions or intercourse, even though – technically and without spoilering – this doesn’t happen. If this is so not your cup of tea please consider yourself adequately warned and go elsewhere!!!
> 
> When I was 16/17 and in highschool I dated someone who was already over 20 and in college: the son of our neighbours, who’s younger brother used to be my sandbox buddy, so the familiarity was a similar one. Everyone from both families was okay with it. I was on the pill – though mainly for the horrible period pain I got each month – but my mum knew I was a sensible kid, a late bloomer and if I was ready for that next step I would be safe. She trusted me, she trusted him and it was okay. So with that experience the concept/ idea I am exploring here doesn’t shock me so much and perhaps being European I have a more liberal attitude towards these things in general than, for example, Puritanism–influenced America. 
> 
> That said let me add that I do NOT in any way condone grooming or advocate for underage sex or a serious age gap!!!!!!!! (The thing with Katherine McPhee’s lover weirds me out!)
> 
> Finally: These are all written from the female POV and it is also her (not the older male) driving these things along, imagining or reading stuff into moments.
> 
> Oh, yeah, not to open a can of worms but there are some moments of archaic concepts of male vs. female status which might make a feminist cringe but to hell with it. I am a feminist and still able to enjoy a bit of male domination every once in a while. 
> 
> These takes place after the first collection of LAKE!
> 
> Okay, shall we proceed then? Feedback/comments are always appreciated. Hate however is NOT!
> 
> Enjoy, be kind, you’re wonderful!
> 
> P.S. I laughed so hard the other day when Kaia posted that ray of sunshine pic on her Insta. Of all the colours she could choose??!! Universe jokes, love ‘em!!!

 

She’s been lying in the sun all morning, basking in the late August warmth, relaxing from the school week and preparing for the beginning of FW month. It’s been a hectic period so far and she’s still settling in after the long, seemingly endless summer break, the family vacation at the lake still a vivid memory in her mind.

And then she remembers and her stomach flips over. Today!

He’s coming to stay with them after returning from Cabo where he’s celebrated his friend’s birthday. Overseeing the production of his tv show he’ll stay in LA for a while and since he has sold his Hollywood house a while ago her dad has invited him to stay with them. As if he couldn’t afford to rent a luxurious pad or stay at the swankiest 5-star hotel in Beverly Hills.

She is equally delighted and unnerved by the prospect of having him as a house guest. Again. Admiring and hating her father for his generosity and perhaps slight infatuation with the young man. His obsession.

But aren’t they all too? Slightly?

She knows her mum is always happy to have him around and so is her sibling, maybe craving an older brother to look up to and learn from instead of a younger sister. As for her, yes, she has to admit that he is in her thoughts more often than not these days. Ever since the lake really and she doesn’t know what to do about it and things won’t get any easier if he will once more be around, sleeping just down the corridor, sitting tousled and slow-blinking at the breakfast table, reading on a towel by the beach next to her and his thigh brushing hers when the three of them pile into the back of the car, her parents in front, driving to the restaurant for breakfast bagels or dinner tacos.

It feels like they’re a family and yet… They’re not. They’re anything but!

She’s lost in these thoughts and the echoing memory of his softly haired leg against hers, when footsteps approach and a shadow falls over her body and she shivers.

“Hey.”

That voice – low, warm, raspy – glides over her skin like… like _Something_ and when she opens her eyes he is a silhouette beside her pool lounger, tall and perfect, curly hair haloed by the sun and she is blinded by him.

 

 


	2. SPF

“Hey, um, could you do me a favour? Put some sunscreen on my back? I don’t want to turn into Larry the lobster out here!”

“Sure.”

She gets up, grabs the bottle and climbs on top of him. It’s a reflex, something she’s done countless times with her brother and girlfriends when they sunbathe together and only when she sits down on the surprisingly round swell of his bum does she realise that she could have just leaned over his back, that this is inappropriate, too close and intimate!

For a second she ponders getting up again but then he’ll know that she’s aware, will know she’s made a mistake and she’d rather not give him that. And so she takes a deep breath, opens the bottle and squeezes a dollop of lotion onto his back.

He flinches at the sensation of coolness against his overheated skin.

She could have put it in her hands first, warmed it between her palms but this way it’s more matter-of-fact, straight to the task, and right now she wants to avoid anything that could give him the idea of hesitancy on her behalf, of shying away from the sensuality.

It is difficult though, almost impossible. Spreading the cream across his back – so pristine, bronzed skin unmarked by ink, strangely vulnerable and warm, so warm beneath her touch – is something that can’t be done without her senses coming alive, attuning and cataloguing every little detail.

The smooth feel of his skin, soft and fleshy on the nape of his neck, knubbly along the length of his spine, the firm coil of muscles along his torso, the taut stretch across the side of his flanks and the softness of short hairs in the hollow at the small of his back, just above the waistband of his swim shorts which she has to slightly lift with one hand to spread the sunscreen along his tan line to make sure he doesn’t burn, the skin pale and creamy where the curve of his absolutely amazing a…!!!

She let’s the waistband snap back into place, ignores his slight yelp of pain and climbing off quickly settles on her stomach on her own lounger without looking at him, his gaze a spot of heat at the back of her head.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

A minute passes silently during which she tries to calm the pounding of her heart, cool the fervour of excitement in her cheeks, erase the memory of his body beneath her still tingling hands and hopes that her voice uttering those two words hasn’t given anything away of the turmoil currently raging within her.

“If you want to I can do yours, return the favour. We’ve been here quite a while.”

She bites her lip, not surprised by his offer, knowing that he is kind and concerned and looking out for her yet unaware of what his touch and proximity can do. Maybe she should get up and leave, find an excuse to head inside: the sanctuary of cool shade and safety in distance. It would be reasonable. But logic is not what she wants, craves right now.

Sensation is. And his touch.

“Okay.”

Four letters. One small word and she feels like deliberately opening Pandora’s box while listening to the rustle of him getting up, walking over and stopping by the side of her pool chair. She waits for what seems like a small eternity and barely manages to stifle a gasp when he finally climbs over her, just as she has before, settling back on the top of her thighs.

“May I?” His fingers ghost over the clasp of her bikini and when she rasps out a _Yes!_ he opens it and brushes the two ends aside, exposing her back to his gaze, his touch.

She holds her breath then, acutely aware of his weight on her legs, hears the lid of the bottle being flipped open, the squelch of liquid pressed from it but the cold impact on her skin doesn’t come.

A moment later his hands land on her shoulders and glide in slow, mirrored synchronicity down across her back, from shoulder blades to the base of her spine and outward then up along the side of her body. He has warmed the lotion in his hands for her and the realisation, along with the way his touch leaves a wake of sensation on her skin, makes it hard for her to stay calm.

His hands are firm and sure on her body, spreading, then massaging the cream into her skin and she feels the need to say something, to distract the longer he takes,to not let this silence build where every touch becomes a profound noise in the fragile arrangement of their relationship, accumulating to something that they can’t ignore and tune out anymore. Something they will have to acknowledge, accept and deal with at some point.

But every topic she can think of seems profane and stilted and the phrases of his touch are already too long, entire paragraphs appearing on her skin, like she is a book to him in which he reads and writes in Braille. And it’s too late, they are already on the brink of something, a precipice or apex and things turning, shifting.

Irrevocably.

So she closes her eyes, hands folded underneath her chin and stays quiet, gives in, listening to what his fingers have to say. There is a whole conversation of thumbs rippling down her spine, followed by small, witty epigrams written in knuckles below her shoulder blades. A sonnet of two soft palms, traveling from her left hip to her right. And back.

And finally a long fragile thread of hesitant questions, whispered by fingertips, beginning at the ticklish dips of her armpits, written along the sides of her ribcage, almost to where her breasts are pressed against the towel under her and ending in a haiku at the small of her back.

She’s a tome, a first folio. Invisibly inked with swirling letters of a language she’s not sure to fully understand. Not cognitively. But the calligraphy of emotion is etched into the canvas of her skin, unerasable.

If he had taken a tattoo needle to her instead it could not feel more intense or permanent. Her heart is beating loudly in her chest, blood rushing in her ears, her throat dry and her entire body thrumming with… a _thing_ that threatens to overwhelm her.

And then she feels his breath at the nape of her neck, while he is leaning forward, over her, his curls tickling the shell of her ear, before his voice ghosts across the side of her face. “You’re done.”

And he’s right. She is.


	3. Dino

He comes out of the house when she returns from a Friday sleepover at a friend’s and she knows the car in the driveway must be his.

“I was meant to collect your brother for a ride but we mixed up our dates and he’s out. Would you like to come for a spin with me instead? We can get something to eat if you want.”

She looks at her mother, hovering in the doorway, to find her smiling and nodding approval and after handing over her school stuff and overnight bag follows him to the brightly coloured car. 

“Are you ravenous?”

She shrugs her shoulders while he opens the door of the 246 GTS for her. “Not quite.”

“Great. Let’s take the scenic route then!”

They head up north towards Calabasas and Encino. He is a very capable driver and she feels safe with him if a bit exited. It’s to do with the weekend, sitting in a fast car and the wind blowing though her hair but there is also something incredibly sexy about the way he handles the Ferrari, how his hands rest on the steering wheel before the right one grips that shift stick and just rams it into the next gear, forceful, assured, in charge.

Next to her coltish legs and slender frame his hand on that lever seems almost freakishly large and strong, the muscles in his forearm flexing whenever he’s shifting and she can’t help but think about how powerful he must be.

She knows he works out. Yoga and weights and box training and it shows in his body. There is a grace and flexibility yet a sinewy strength, coiled into muscle, roped and rippling along his torso and something inside her reacts to that: an archaic impulse, instinctual, subconscious, acknowledging his physical superiority, accepting, appreciating and somehow eager to experience it.

Her body warms from more than the sunshine through the open car roof and she tries to focus back on his voice telling her about the sick son of the company owner who gave the car its name, the famous designer Pininfarina responsible for the sensual curves of the chassis and the change to a V6 motor and its acceleration momentum.

Apparently it’s an impressive one even though she doesn’t really understand and so – though he’s a good guy and takes his responsibility regarding his passenger very seriously – he can’t resist showing her what torque means along the bends and curves of Mulholland Drive. She feels breathless by the time they stop at one of the scenic overlooks, the speeding and slowing of centrifugal force having upset her blood as well as her inner equilibrium.

And he is such a boy today, reminding her of her brother and his passion for cars, voice equally exited and eyes shining bright with delight. It’s contagious and she feels giddy herself standing by the wooden fence, admiring the view.

“Can I drive your car sometime?” she asks turning around.

He’s leaning against the hood of the Spider, looking like every single one of his millions of dollars in his Ray Bans, flared custom GUCCI slacks and short-sleeved silk shirt, the flowy ensemble accentuating wide shoulders and long legs and inviting body language, open, there, his head tilted up towards the sun, throat exposed.

“I tell you what,” he replies, not moving an inch, “when you’ve got your licence and your driving style meets my approval you can ride it whenever you like!”

She’s sure he’s unaware of the double entendre but her cheeks flush hot with embarrassment while her eyes roam across his body and the word _RIDE_ echoes inside her head, a building crescendo of something completely unrelated to cars.

By the time they continue their journey down Laurel Canyon into West Hollywood and to In-N-Out on Sunset she is ravenous on more than one level and grateful for the feast of burgers, fries and milk shakes awaiting her, sating at least one of her cravings.

He pays for both their food like the British gentleman that he is and, lets be honest, his pocket money exceeds hers by a couple of zeroes! But still, it feels like a first date like this and she needs to stop thinking about him in that way because…?

And then she can’t think of a good enough reason anymore.

Not when he’s sitting across from her, radiant and tousled, inhaling his burger, eyes palest jade and winking cheekily beneath his curls, held back by his sunglasses, while he dips into her vanilla shake because it goes better with his fries than the chocolate version he’s ordered himself.

Not later when he walks her back to the car in the parking lot, past a few curiously staring people, his hand hovering low on her back, protective, and he opens the passenger door for her with a flourish and a bow. “Mylady!”

And not when he is seated beside her, starting the engine and beaming at her once more, so happy and gorgeous and sexy and asks: “Bored yet?”

“No.”

“Good.” He smiles and ignoring all left turns towards Santa Monica Blvd. continues on Sunset, driving them all the way down to Pacific Palisades. The sun is already low in the sky, basking everything in warm golden light by the time they merge back onto HWY 1 towards Malibu.

He has spent hours with her and she genuinely feels as if he’s had as much fun as she’s enjoyed this outing and his company today. And the only thing not making this a first date is the fact that he won’t kiss her outside her parent’s house once they have arrived back home.

No.

He will park the car and they will enter the house together instead of awkwardly hovering on the doorstep, negotiating how to proceed, how to lean in and touch their lips together and she wonders if he’d be the type who would cup her cheek or put a finger underneath her chin to lift her face towards his mouth.

She has a feeling that he is that kind of kisser. Slow, sensual and romantic, just like they do in teen movies, during those scenes that make her stomach flip while watching, giving her a pang of longing, like a guitar string tearing inside her maybe, leaving a note of sadness and the wish to be kissed just like that reverberating through her.

But no, there will be no such thing.

Instead they will climb the stairs and head towards their respective bedrooms. He will wish her a good night and walk away, not hesitate and reach for her hand to unexpectedly pull her close, until she is flush against him, looking up confused and breathless, her heart a frantic drum inside her ears and chest while his arm sneaks around her waist, steadying, as he walks her backwards into the wall of the little projection next to her bedroom door, shielding them from anyone so he can do what he wants to do, what he’s been wanting to do all day in the little nook and descend upon her like a bird of prey, pressing her against the wall and himself against her, hungrily devouring her mouth, passionate, his hips grinding into hers in an insistent courtship while his big hands roam her body, glide down from her neck across her breasts, down to her hips, then the back of her thighs, hoisting her up so she’s trapped between the wall and his body, hot and hard against her, showing her how he truly feels, what she does to him and that this afternoon hasn’t left him indifferent.

No, none of that!

She shakes her head and the fantasy dissolves, her cheeks aflame while she watches him continue his walk along the corridor, retreating and taking all her foolish longing and desires with him.

But then, just before he turns the corner, stepping through the door into his own room he gives her a final look. A look that is real and slams through her like a force field. A look that will keep her awake for the entire night; a look which memory will pierce her mind like a white-hot poker in the weeks to follow; a look she will wait for to appear in his eyes again, however long that may take; a look she will treasure until the day it returns and she will be brave, throw caution to the wind, ignoring all doubts and concerns, fling herself into his arms and make him act on it.


	4. Trousers

It is probably a mistake. It must be. Her mother is fluent in fashion and certainly knows, if not their guest’s sartorial opulence then at least her daughter’s wardrobe contents. But things have been a bit manic with her imminent departure to NYFW, last minute adjustments to her schedule, occasions and venues changing, her outfits accordingly.

It’s been a carousel of attire options and dry cleaning emergencies. Their housekeeper on the brink of a breakdown handling this, all on top of maintaining a household with the regular laundry of five instead of four people these days. So it’s an understandable error but one easily rectified. All she has to do is grab the item from the pile sitting on her bed, walk down the hall into the guest room and give it to him. Or she can leave it on his bed if he is out again.

Or…?

Or she can toss it into her suitcase, quickly throw a bunch of skinny jeans on top to hide, bury it like a treasure, a secret memento illegally acquired in a mad moment of almost fangirl hysteria 20 minutes before she’s off to the airport and the Big Apple.

If he misses it while she’s gone she can always say that she packed it by accident, didn’t notice it between the pile of denim. Would he believe her though? The colour is still blatantly obvious amidst the blue and black. A pretty pale pastel, the hue of a baby chicken.

When she first slips into it on the East Coast a day later she thinks it’s an unusual colour for a boy. A man. But she knows he doesn’t care for social conventions. It’s one of the things she likes about him. That fierce determination to abide only by his own rules, his own beliefs based on freedom and love and equality.

Maybe he won’t mind that she’s wearing it regularly around the family apartment in New York then, happily snuggling into comfy leisure wear in between high-end fashion shows and long days backstage: combs teasing, hair dryers blazing, high heels pinching and too many people and flashlights, and her functioning on never enough sleep or food.

Wearing it gives her a silly burst of happiness. She feels close to him, connected. Almost as if he’s there with her and the fuzzy inside of the garment is like a warm caress of a hand against the silkiness of her freshly-waxed legs.

And she remembers…

_They are driving back from the café, and she’s wedged between him and her brother in the backseat, with not enough room to comfortably accommodate three tall, long-legged people. She can feel the warmth emanating from his body, so close to her, their knees bumping together whenever her dad drives too jerkily, distracted by loudly singing along to one of his favourite radio tunes with mum while her brother is bringing the ad-lib harmonies from the backseat. All of them giddy from a wonderful sunday with fantastic food, laughter and great conversations._

_She’s wearing a tiny playsuit and he’s in cuffed jean shorts and a wide, faded white tee, sleeves rolled up to his shoulders against the day’s heat. The touch of his naked arm and leg against her bare skin feels searingly intense and she concentrates so hard on keeping calm and acting normally that she misses him falling asleep next to her, tired and tipsy from dinner and one too many tequila cocktails._

_The sudden movement of his head dropping forward, chin on chest, curly hair tumbling across cheeks and eyes has her look at him then and it’s painfully endearing to find him like that: vulnerable, cute, his arms limply hanging down, wrists on his thighs, his profile sharp with that gorgeously angled masculine jaw and yet an innocent, almost childlike aspect to it all with those crimson pouty lips, half opened and emitting the tiniest snore._

_The others are oblivious, still belting out rock tunes and it feels as if a bubble is forming around her and him, together in their silence. A sharp bend in the road makes his body tilt towards her, head lolling against her shoulder, centripedal force pressing his entire side to hers from biceps to hips and down to their calves and his right hand slips from the top of his thigh across hers and drops in between her legs, resting against the inside of her upper thigh muscle  just below where her playsuit ends._

_For a moment lasting an eternity everything freezes. Time. Sound. The breath in her throat. All things fall away until nothing exists but her and him. Her leg, his touch._

_He. Is. So. Close!_

_His body still leaning into hers, his head heavy on her shoulder and his fingers warm against her skin. Without moving her head she looks up quickly through her lashes to check if anyone has noticed but everyone’s still singing and she decides to leave things as they are. Even more she closes her eyes, pretending to be asleep too and angles her body ever so slightly towards his, returning the pressure, narrowing distance to nonexistence._

_His subconscious registers the contact and his fingers twitch on her flesh in an exquisite torturous reflex. It’s amazing that she still manages to breathe calmly while there is a tempest of emotions raging within her as his touch burns an invisible mark into her thigh._

_The heat simmers across her entire body before it glides down to pool between her legs. There, where she needs him, where she wants his hand to move, his fingers to carefully touch and probe, part and enter and just… TAKE what is already his, has been for the longest time._

_She has to bite her lip to not moan at the idea of him doing it, of fucking her with his fingers, those long slender digits disappearing down to the knuckles inside her, until she feels his rings against her clit, while he moves and plays with her, preparing and stretching her for something throat-tighteningly bigger, wider, reaching deeper in invading seizure, claiming and marking and ultimately possessing and owning in the most profound way._

_Her head feels dizzy with the thought of it and she swallows the lump in her throat formed at her own daring and covetous lustfulness, bites her lip harder to keep from accidentally voicing her desire in an animalistic sound of purest need._

_By the time they stop in their driveway she feels almost faint from the mental images filling her mind, the blood in her ears rushing so loudly she barely hears her family’s amused conversation about the two sleeping beauties in the backseat._

_For once her older sibling doesn’t poke her in the ribs with his elbow to wake her up but adheres to their father’s order to let them rest for now and find their way inside once they’ve woken._

_She can’t believe her luck but a moment later the car doors open and close, footsteps and voices of three people disappearing and then it is quiet and she is left alone in the car with him._

_She could open her eyes now, look down at where his hand is curved around the convex of her thigh, where all things imagined fall together in unexpected, overwhelming reality. But she doesn’t._

_Somehow it is more intense to keep the eyes closed and just feel. Feel the way his body heat bleeds into her side, how their joined upper bodies rise and fall slightly which each synchronised breath, how the weight of his head gives her shoulder purpose and how that relaxed, unaware hand between her legs holds more power over her than any conscious touch she’s ever received from any boy she’s met before._

_He owns her in a way he’s never claimed or asked for, never had to because it had already been granted. She is a gift to him, sitting pretty and waiting to be opened._

_She smiles at the thought and as if he senses it his hand once more flexes against her leg, slower this time, fingers curling into her thigh, nails scraping lightly across the soft skin and it feels like a promise of MINE, SOON!_

New York is bustling and loud below her while she leans against the window, cooling her flushed forehead, her mouth playing with the rim of a glass of juice, a secret smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Remembering his hand between her legs she squeezes her thighs together, warm and cozy in those track pants, and her teeth sink into her bottom lip to bite away the moan of longing as she hugs her arms around herself in her brand-new, favourite loungewear attire.

On the table behind her is a stunning bouquet of flowers, whimsical and romantic, which had been delivered earlier, accompanied by a flat, beautifully gift-wrapped box. Opening the present she had found another piece of pastel-coloured clothing and a handwritten note from him:

_Sweet one,_

_I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for your birthday the other night but I promise I’ll make it up to you when you get back! Meanwhile I thought you might like this to complete your ensemble and co-ordinate with your ‘NEW’ trousers!!!!_

_Keep ‘em! I’m sure they look fabulous on you._

_X_


	5. Stage Lights

He has made good on his New York promise of a belated birthday gift and treated her to a concert and generous as he is has invited her entire family along. She is a bit disappointed, greedy enough to want to have him to herself but finds that with her brother’s girlfriend also in attendance and her parents in a particularly lovey-dovey mood it all evens out to three couples and the thought makes her giddy with romantic notions.

The band is a beloved family favourite if not truly her first choice when it comes to musical preferences but they are a classic and she’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. What more is the fact that he is so deliriously exited, his happy smile bright enough to light up the entire concert hall and it warms her heart to see him so passionate and elated.

The entire Forum is sold out and even the VIP stand is surprisingly crowded and yet for some strange reason it feels as if they are by themselves. Her parents and brother are lost somewhere along the other end with friends while her and him are tucked to the very corner next to a group of Asian business men who seem to be more into discussing a recent successful merger than to listen to the music.

She laughs at the expression of utter disgust on his handsome face at their lack of appreciation for what to him is an almost holy experience, thus deep runs his love for the group. He tells her about how he first discovered their music through his father, his voice a low baritone near her ear.

It doesn’t take much pretense to feign trouble understanding him, the music is pretty loud and so he leans even closer, repeating his words and now his lips are against the shell of her ear, soft on her earlobe and his posh UK accent is almost like a physical entity – foreign, sexy – doing things to her in a way only his body could.

His body, tall, strong, warm, is a shield he uses to protect her a moment later when one of the Asian business men stumbles and crashes into her, tipsy from too much celebratory alcohol. His face becomes a storm of furrowed brow and intense eyes as he snarls a reprimand at the man, then moves her even further along the tier, almost crowding her against the corner of the balustrade.

She adores it: the anger making the wonderful angles in his chiseled face stand out more pronounced than ever, his aura becoming darker as he squares his shoulders in subconscious preparation for fight, ready to defend what he considers his. It is so alpha and she feels arousal at the idea of him coming to her afterwards to claim and enjoy what he defended against a rival.  

She has seen footage of him from various concerts, solo and with his former band, and is reminded that there is a raw, wild, barely contained force within him which breaks through in sudden gut-wrenching outbursts of kinetic energy and a very old archaic part of her understands that despite all his lovely radiant charm there is this dark and animalistic carnal streak in him, made to dominate and own.

It’s the same old part in her reacting to it now, wanting exactly that, to be claimed and forced down on hands and knees, mounted from behind in a primal mating ritual reminiscent of wild animals in TV documentaries, a pure, lewd act of basest instinct, all intellect, refinement and propriety extinguished by guttural sounds, sweat and uncompromising lust.

Her body starts to tremble in panic, facing for the first time the truth of the animal inside her. The shivers running through her body translate to him, so warm and solid behind her back, encircling her frame like a physical fence of protection and possessiveness.

She feels his hands on her hips before he turns her around and she is faced with his worried expression and concern. “Are you alright? You’re trembling!”

It is silly of her, nothing has really happened except the sudden realisation of her own depravity of wantonness. Yet it is significant enough to push her almost into a kind of shock as she is fluttering in his arms like a captured bird, while he holds her close to his chest in the gentlest of embraces. And his kindness and ignorance of her thoughts upsets her even more as she’s crying into his shoulder, soaking his shirt, her voice garbled between sobs when she asks him: “Take… Me…? Take me…?”

And in that moment she isn’t sure whether she’s pleading for physical relief or corporeal removal.

***

When she next comes to he is barely holding her up next to a sink trying to splash her face with water. They are in an empty public bathroom of the arena though how they got there is a mystery to her.

“I carried you. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

And upon seeing her confused face he continues to explain. “Halfway out the VIP area you fainted. So I took you here by myself. No time going back to look for your mum. And I didn’t want to call for help, cause a scene.”

His hand is cool and moist against her forehead as she sways still slightly dizzy in his arm. “Talk to me darling, what’s going on? Did you eat enough? Drink enough water?”

She nods, her head falling forward against his shoulder for a moment, exhausted.

“Yeah, it was just, I don’t know...” She straightens herself up again. “… a bit much for a moment. Crowds weird me out sometimes.”

“Tell me about it.” He lets go of her, carefully, hovering close as if worried she might faint on him again as she wets her hands under the running tap and pats her cheeks with cold water.

“YOU must be used to them. You’ve played this venue. By yourself. Twice.”

“I did. But trust me, one never gets used to crowds. Not on this scale. It overwhelms me every single time. I almost fainted myself when I did MSG a few months ago. So I get where you’re coming from.”  

She smiles at him, a small appreciatively curl of lips at his humble, down-to-earth attitude.

“Listen, can I leave you here for a moment?” He looks at her questioningly, concern still furrowing his brow.

“Sure, yeah. Where are you going?”

“To find someone who sells beverages in here, get you an energy drink and some chocolate. Pushing your blood sugar levels and circulation with coffein can’t be wrong right now. Stay here. Keep running cold water over your wrists, just in case.” 

He turns to leave then spins round once more lifting his index finger in a mockingly stern admonishment while walking backwards to the door. “Don’t faint again!”

“Okay, I won’t.”

“Good girl.”

She runs her hands under the cold water, while looking at herself in the smudged mirror. She looks pale, peaky, her eyes unusually bright and her irises blown huge. The memory of her earlier thoughts is still an embarrassed heat along her cheeks and a fire low in her belly.

***

“So, ready to face the music again?”

She nods in affirmation, smiling and truly feeling much better after a can of Red Bull and a shared Twix bar. He grabs her hand and eagerly pulls her along through the deserted corridors and doesn’t let go when they return to the concert hall. A part of her wants to triumph but there is no calculating strategy within her when she holds on, too much in her still terrified of her own darkness and grateful for his calming presence and gesture of kindness.

The VIP stand is still crowded but he shoulders his way into it, his hands holding on to both of her wrists and pulling her along behind him, so close she can count each curl falling across his neck and has to watch out not to step on his heel.

He nods and greets a few acquaintances but never stops to talk, searching the melee for her family. It is futile so he maneuvers her to the nearest gap along the railing, once again placing her in front of him and shielding her with his body, his hands resting on the metal barrier beside hers.

They stand there for a moment silently, watching the band on stage and then he leans in close, the warmth from his chest seeping into her back, his face beside her head just above her shoulder. “Enjoy the rest of show. But if it gets too much again, just let me know, okay?”

She turns her head to him, too close to see his profile in full, just long lashes, perfect nose and pouty lips, near, so near, and whispers. “Okay.”

She catches the flash of white teeth as he smiles and feels his left hand cover hers for a moment, his thumb stroking her wrist in assurance. Then he straightens himself up, and gives her some space. She feels sorry at the loss of immediate contact, but is calmed when sensing him just behind her, never more than a step backwards away from her.

Despite the earlier emotional turmoil she finds that she really enjoys herself and the music, the band being wonderful and she hums along to the more familiar melodies of their most successful songs. Time flies by and the concert draws to an end.

The encore starts with soft plucked arpeggios and a single trumpet solo and as the crowd erupts in cheers of delight at the recognition of the intro to the band’s biggest success she feels his hand on hers again and his mouth against her ear.

“May I have this dance?”

She turns around to him, shy as if he had just asked her to prom and is overwhelmed when he stands there, leaning slightly forward in a half bow, one arm behind his back, the other extended in invitation. He looks like a goddamn Disney prince, from his soft shirt up to that pink mouth, bright gaze and a single unruly curl falling into his face.

She’s blushing but takes his hand nonetheless and as the 12-string guitar sets in allows him to pull her close. Resting her other hand on his shoulder she feels his free arm sneak around her and his hand settle on the small of her back.

And then they are dancing and it is easily one of the most wonderful moments of her life. He is fantastic at this, rhythm and measure innate qualities he possesses along with grace and the ability to convey his intentions, steering her into little figures of steps without problems or confusion on her behalf. They seem to set a great example, other couples in the stand joining in and she catches some benevolently smiling at them.

“My mum would be so proud right now.”

“Is that so? Why?”

“I am usually not the most graceful when it comes to arranging my long legs and limbs in logical patterns to musical accompaniment.”

He laughs. “My mum would be proud if I ever uttered a sentence like that. That was profound lyrical eloquence. And by the way it takes two to tango as they say. I’ve found that you’re only as good a dancer as the one you’re partnered up with. I even heard once that you can tell the state of a marriage by the way a couple dances. If it’s a disaster on the dancefloor, then so is their relationship.”

“Really? Wow. We must be a great old married couple then.”

“Absolutely.” As if to prove his point he makes her spin around him in a series of quick twirls. She doesn’t stumble once.

“See?” His beatific smile is brighter than a supernova once he scoops her into his arms again and she feel the intense urge to kiss it right off his mouth.

“You better make sure to marry me then before some untalented guy with horrible dancing feet crosses my way.” She giggles at her own joke but is cut short at the suddenly serious look in his eyes.

“Whoever marries you one day is going to be one hell of a lucky bastard. And he’ll better make sure to treat you right or I’ll come and whip his ass. From here to Cullivoe.”

“Where’s Cullivoe?”

“UK. Scotland. Shetland Isles to be exact. Very far up north.”

“Ah.” She can’t think of a witty comeback to that, still baffled at his sudden jealousy. They are silent for a moment swaying to the music before he picks up the conversation again.

“So, after all the drama earlier, are you having fun?”

“I am, very much. Thank you!”

“You’re welcome!”

He smiles and for a moment she leans her head against his shoulder in a gesture of grateful contentment. Something about their position triggers a memory from earlier and she looks up at him and asks: “You said in the bathroom that you’ve carried me before?”

“Yes, I did.”

“When?

“That night we came back from dinner at Habana, remember? We both fell asleep in the car. I woke up at some point but you were out for the count so I picked you up and brought you back to your room.”

“You carried me to my room?”

“Yup.”

“And put me to bed?”

“I did.”

She lowers her gaze to his collarbones, nervous. “Did you undress me?”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“But you tucked me in?”

“Nice and tight, so the bedbugs couldn’t bite.”

“Did you… kiss me goodnight?”

He is silent for a long beat, his only reaction an unconscious tightening of his grip and her heart drums frantically in her chest. When she finally dares to look up she finds him gazing at her with an intense expression in his green eyes. “I thought about it.”

“You did?” Her voice is small and squeaky in surprise, overwhelmed at the implications and her head still spinning from the fact that this moment of blank in her memory is finally being cleared up.

“I did.”

“Then why didn’t you… do it?”

“There are at least ten good reasons why that would be a very bad idea.”

“Tell me.”

“Tell you? Um, okay, so first of all because your dad would kill me if I did?”

“And?”

“Which might not be so bad as to end the agony your mum would have surely inflicted upon my most sensitive organs and areas, the ones your big brother would have left me with.”

“That’s only three reasons so far.”

“You want me to go on?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let’s see. Four, my mum would have happily joined your family in ensuring my untimely demise. As would my big sister, which brings us up to five. Six, you are a minor, which makes this a transgression punishable by law. Seven, I am older, by quite a few years and I do not particularly like the attribute pedophile attached to me. Eight, I could kiss my career goodnight if the media found out. Nine, the cancellation of my contracts with the record company would throw me headfirst into a complicated legal battle over reparational payments, which could potentially ruin me financially.”

“All that for one kiss?”

“In theory, yeah.”

“Seems like you’ve thought about it…”

“Like I said in theo…”

“…for quite a while.”

He is silent and if she isn’t completely mistaken there is more than embarrassment written across his face, vulnerability maybe. And she is nervous, tense with the unexpected realisation of herself not being the only one to imagine, to have been contemplating… things.

“What is reason number ten?” Her voice has dropped to hesitant and quiet with the seriousness of the moment. So has his.

“You. I wouldn’t want to confuse you.”

His consideration is admirable but she won’t comment on that, not yet, not while there is another piece missing from this vexing puzzle.  “You said there are at least ten reasons. Meaning there is at least one more!”

“Have you ever considered a career in the legal sector once high school finishes?” He sounds sarcastic. “You certainly pay attention to the little things.”

She doesn’t answer, searching and holding his gaze, waiting for his reply. He sighs and then looks down at his shoes. “The final reason… the final reason would be me I guess.”

“You? How?”

When he looks up at her again she is shocked to find something akin to fury in his gaze, she can feel it in the way he’s holding her, his body suddenly stiff and tense in frustration and barely suppressed anger and he must be really mad at her, the space between them suddenly thick with tension and she wouldn’t be surprised if he pushed her away right now.

“You don’t give up, do you?” His gaze is dark, assessing, a strange fire in his eyes.

“Not my style, no.” She is determined to stand her ground, whatever the cost.

He laughs, bitter. “Not mine either.”

And in that moment he capitulates. She sees it in his face, in the way the tension leaves his body and the warmth returns to his eyes. He looks at her, and it’s a look that sees everything there is to her and then he pulls her close once more, closer than before, flush against his body into the tightest of embraces, the heat of him encircling her, his aftershave an accord of smoky spice and sweet caramel notes in her nose and with the final chords of the band’s song he slowly spins them around while he leans down to her, bringing his mouth to her ear, then slightly lower to that soft pulse point in her neck and whispers against her thrumming blood.

“Because… one kiss… I wouldn’t want to stop there!!!”


	6. Lemon Posset

The kitchen is empty and quiet, like the whole house, everyone asleep but her. She knows she’ll have to explain herself in the morning when the others will find out that the leftovers have vanished. Her brother will be furious but she doesn’t care.

She is slightly mad at him anyway for monopolising their house guest this entire weekend. Yet again. So stealing the remnants of his favourite dessert is a small act of revenge for what he’s done.

It shouldn’t be this way, feeling deprived of something but she cannot help it. Like one shivers for a moment in summer when the sun disappears behind a cloud she feels colder whenever their guest is not around or when he is distracted by her brother and his questions about guitars, talks about football and exotic Italian cars.

A sense of pointlessness pervades her then and she questions her very being. It’s silly and stupid but only when that jade-green gaze is trained on her she feels as if she truly comes into existence.

She opens the fridge and pulls out the lemon posset. Her mum, generous as always, has made a huge bowl, knowing how three males and a blessed with a fast metabolism teenage girl can demolish a tart pudding after a scrumptious dinner.

They’d done their best, or worst, yet not managed to finish it all and there is still a good potion left which, no doubt, her brother will claim for breakfast. She smiles triumphantly at the thought of his disappointed face in the morning.

Fetching a tablespoon from the cutlery drawer she leans over the kitchen island and delves into the frothy lusciousness, ready to bliss out her taste buds with lemony carbohydrates and creamy fat. 

“What do we have here?”

She gasps in shock and all but drops the spoon into the metal bowl at the slow Northern drawl. He’s standing in the kitchen door in a rumpled band shirt and boxer shorts, hair a tousled mess around his bleary-eyed but still gorgeous frowning face.

Realising he’s startled her his expression becomes soft and a small smile curls up half of his mouth while he steps closer, stopping next to her at the edge of the kitchen island.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

His voice is even lower and raspier than usual, now, in the middle of the night. It is something that never fails to wakes things deep inside her, things that stir and flutter around, up towards her heart and then surge down inside her body to somewhere behind her belly button, or lower.

“Couldn’t sleep and decided to get a glass of honey milk. Didn’t expect to find a cake thief in the kitchen.”

“I’m not a cake thief!” Despite her protestation she scoops a spoonful of lemon pudding into her mouth.

“True, you’re more of a posset poacher.”

She can’t help a giggle at the ludicrous alliteration and his reply is the slow smirk that creases his cheek into that absurdly deep dimple which she loves.

“I could keep your dirty secret of lemon larceny if you’d be willing to share?” His eyebrows lift, his mouth now set in a sardonic grin, while his eyes follow her motions, gaze intense, as she lifts another spoonful to her lips. There is a hint of hunger in his eyes and surely it’s for the dessert, right?

“Hm.” She contemplates her options for a moment, looking down into the bowl, filling her spoon again and assessing how many potions are left for her if she goes half with him. “Okay.”

By the time she looks up he is leaning over his side of the island, eyes closed and mouth opened expectantly and any impulse of fetching him an extra spoon from the drawer is clearly obsolete. Steadying her hand she lifts the filled spoon to his lips and a second later they close around the silver metal, the tug of his mouth palpable through the stem of the spoon, all the way along her arm to the very core of her body and it feels as if he isn’t just sucking the lemon posset off the spoon but something residing deep within her, that is unexpectedly pulled up and out and into him.

By the time he opens his eyes and his mouth, releasing the empty spoon, she feels upset, her insides smarting like a paper cut. Perhaps it translates into her expression, eyes wide and dark and a slight tremble in her body because he closes his hand around hers holding the spoon and it feels like a gesture of comfort before he takes the spoon from her, scoops up more pudding and holds it up for her to eat.

Her eyes never leave his as she closes her lips around the cool, moist heap of lemony goo and ironically it feels like consuming a burning blade when she swallows, the dessert leaving a searing path inside her throat as it travels down while he’s watching her, his eyes emerald fire on her mouth, her neck, and she feels dizzy, almost like fainting in front of him.   

She has no idea how she manages to stay upright, take the spoon back from him and fill it once more. This time he keeps his eyes open, trained on hers and she feels as if she is feeding him something that has nothing to do with dessert. The smarting pain within is there again, like metal would feel she imagines, cutting through her, or a sword being pulled out of her in a strange semblance of King Arthur’s myth. That tug on the spoon almost enough to pull her forward, like invisible strings attached to her body, making her crash against, into him and just… She has no idea.

Ignite? Dissolve?

And while she is still searching for the right word his fingers brush against hers to claim the spoon or maybe playing with, caressing her. She isn’t sure. Her eyes flutter shut and stay that way even when she feels the cool tip of the spoon against her lips a moment later. She just opens her mouth and waits for the zingy tartness to fill her, creamy lemon flavour exploding on her tongue as he pulls the spoon slowly from her mouth, the metal dragging across her lower lip.

The noise registers only a moment later and she isn’t sure if it originates from within or outside of her until she opens her eyes and finds him staring at her. And there it is again, finally, the look, that expression of hungry rapture on his beautiful face and she knows that they both must have made the sound at the same time.

Feeling dazed she sways forward, against him and into his embrace, the last thing she hears the metallic clang of the spoon and bowl hitting the stone-tiled floor and then it is a roar of blood in her ears as she crashes her mouth to his and lets herself be consumed by him.

Devoured.

She is being devoured. Every particle of her sucked and licked and swallowed by him. And she’ll gladly lose herself in it: his arms, the mouth, this kiss. She doesn’t know how to think anymore, her brain turned to lemon goo, her entire body oozing, flowing onto, into him and he just takes it all, scoops her up, greedy, hungry, ravenous. His mouth, lips, tongue all over her, inside her.

Hands grabbing, fingers raking, they drip to the floor in a tumble of melting limbs, her over him, sliding down his front, straddling his lap, his band shirt ridden up, exposing those chiseled abdominals glazed with the wetness seeping through her boy shorts panties, a spot on his boxers an equal mess of moisture.

The floor is a sea of spilled lemon posset around them.

She drags her fingers through it, smears the creamy yellow across his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his forehead to lick it off while he’s busy coating her neck and shoulder with it, mouth sweeping along jugular and clavicle before he dips his head down to run his tongue along the edge of her tank top, sticky fingertips following, skimming, grazing along, pulling down the fabric, exposing a small, firm breast to his blazing gaze, followed by a ganache of acidic froth circled around the beaded nipple and immediately savoured by his hot mouth.

Gasping she pulls his head against her chest, fingers raking through his curls while he nuzzles her breast, worships her, tongue swirling, teasing, flicking, before his lips close around, sucking and lightly biting so she has to arch into him, pressing closer, against and down onto where he is hot and hardening between her thighs.

She cradles his face, fuses her mouth to his once more and sweeping one hand through the dessert on the floor reaches between them and into his boxers to wrap around the length of his cock. He moans, his tongue swiping through her mouth with the same eagerness of his hips jerking upwards into her touch and then she’s working him, kneeling in his lap, his hands braced on the messy floor, their mouths fused together in wild, hungry kisses as he pants and thrusts up into her touch, precum and pudding a perfect lubricant to stroke him to an almost unreal size and hardness between her fingers.

The feel of him inside her palm, so big, so perfect and the way he looks at her, green eyes wide, irises blown, disbelief and ecstasy written across his face is beautiful beyond anything she’s ever witnessed and it’s only topped by the way his eyes flutter close moments later, long lashes fanning across his cheeks, his head falling backwards away from her lips and she hears the desperate little noises he makes as he is approaching his climax.

It’s when he lifts one hand to grab her by the shoulder to anchor himself to her just as he is about to come undone when slickness and motion and balance get the better of them both and his other hand loses purchase on the messy tiles and he slips and crashes backwards pulling her down with him and he smacks the back of his head on the floor and she crushes her lips against his jaw and its slightly painful but they are both so high on arousal, sugar carbs and taboo by now that neither of them cares.

So when he simply flips them around on the floor and pulls his ruined shirt over his head, followed by her tank top before immediately fusing his mouth to her lips again and settling himself between her thighs, grinding down to where she’s in nothing but panties and needs to feel him, she wraps her arms around his neck, curls one long leg around his and whispers: “Please, please!”

It works because he abandons his own satisfaction, his mouth starting a journey along her ear and neck to her chest, his long, gentle fingers drawing patters of lemon across her skin, then erasing them with a sweep of his tongue, creating new shapes around her navel and the concave of her hip bones. She closes her eyes, her fingers once more threaded into his soft curls until she loses touch when he scoots down between her legs and pulls down her underwear.

Her eyes fly open then and panting she lifts her head slightly to look at him, kneeling between her thighs, his eyes roaming across her body while she is naked and exposed on the tiled kitchen floor. He grabs the bowl they’ve dropped earlier and there is enough pudding left, despite the spillage on the floor for him to pour it over her clean-shaven sex.

It’s dripping onto her pubic bone, more liquid than gooey now thanks to room temperature but still slightly cool from the fridge and she hisses, watching rapt as it’s spreading: two rivulets meandering along the dips where her legs extend from her hips, another into her bellybutton and the final  one flowing deliciously along the folds of her labia. He is watching in equal fascination, never taking his eyes of her while he sets the bowl aside and lowers himself down between her legs to begin his banquet.

He makes a feast of her. Eating, savouring her while working her slowly, deeply, thoroughly.

Touching, kissing, sucking, licking and entering. Lips, tongue, fingers.

Messy. And dirty. And relentlessly.

Until she comes for him.

And again.

And again.

Until the bowl is empty, nothing left to coat and glaze her with but he doesn’t care. She is so ready for him now, her body trembling beneath him, overflowing with its own juices – infinitely sweeter to him – and he works his way up to her face, stopping along the way in places of worship: her left hip, her right nipple, the mole on her breastbone, that soft spot right behind her ear, the tip of her nose while he hovers above her, giving her a moment to prepare as he aligns himself, sees her eyes widen when she feels him against her core, really feels him for the first time, his boxers discarded somewhere along the way.

And then he brushes the hair out of her face, cups her cheek and touches his lips to hers in a tender kiss while he slowly, so slowly, pushes and slides himself into her. She gasps at the sensation and intrusion, the ache and sudden need to accommodate, the unfamiliar, growing fullness.

More. And more. And more.

Strange, overwhelming.

She lets herself be consumed by it. The feeling of reaching, then being at limit, even beyond.

All she can do is breathe, relax, open while he waits, placing slow, soft kisses to her parted lips, one hand caressing her hairline, the other against her face, his thumb, sticky with posset, brushing across her cheek.

She loses all sense of time, maybe it has stopped until he pulls back, withdraws almost fully before kissing her once more, sliding his tongue between her lips in the same way he comes to her again, a slow surge that has her gasp once more.

This time not because of the strangeness and unfamiliarity but the sheer beauty of feeling claimed, owned, that profound sense of belonging.

He kisses her again while he waits, a languid sweep through her mouth, like he relishes all the flavours it holds for him, like he wants to treasure them. When he pulls back he leans his forehead against her shoulder to look down the length of her body beneath his, down to where they’re still joined, barely, her arousal glistening on his cock, cooling, his wide head still lodged inside her tight heat.

He bites his lip to keep from cursing when he sinks forward, accompanying the move with a slow circle of his hips as he presses himself into her for the third time. The noise she makes is involuntary and utterly honest in its deep guttural appreciation of how he makes her feel.

And once more he stills deep inside her, his patience belied by the frantic pulse of his heart, the throbbing in his cock, the singing of blood in his ears. So when she brings herself closer to him, shifts her body beneath his to take him further in he knows she’s ready and he starts to really move, slowly building up a rhythm that soon has them both writhe and pant in synchronicity.

That’s when she fully realises what they are doing. What’s happening to her. He is taking her, rocking himself into her on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night. He is a family friend. He is seven years older than her. He is the most lusted after man in showbiz under 25 in the entire world. He is the one she’s wanted. And he is her first.

He is the one she is clinging to right now, her body welcoming him, hips rising to meet him, feet locked behind his back to pull him deeper, bring him closer. Her arms slung around his neck, fingers tangled in silky curls, mouth pressed to his and whispering unintelligible phrases conveying _Want_ and _Need_ and _More please_ , of _Don’t stop_ and _Forever_.

He is the one complying to her wishes by taking it to the next level as he pins her hands to the floor above her head, fucking himself into her even deeper and kisses and breaths and sweat mingles between them as she begins to come undone for him: moaning, gasping into his mouth, maybe biting the tightly coiled muscle of his shoulder, biting down hard to muffle her ecstatic scream as she falls apart around him, clenching, shaking uncontrollably in the afterglow.

While he is like the ocean. Tidal.

Crashing into her, like waves against a rock.

Again and again and again.

Or perhaps she is the ocean and he is like a boat plowing through it, determined, resolute, aiming towards a true north until the storm gathers inside her once more; builds and builds until she crests and breaks and culminates once more and only this time does he follow her.

His climax a final desperate arch and a low guttural cry and then heat filling her while he collapses onto her, pinning her down to the stone floor, their tangled limbs sticky with dessert, the shockwaves of their orgasms like ripples caused by pebbles thrown into a pond: overlapping, amplifying as he spends himself inside her, her contractions milking him dry and the only word from his lush mouth against her temple is a broken whisper of her name.

***

She wakes up, gasping, disoriented, the amplitude of her orgasm still rolling through her sleepy consciousness and when she reaches down and touches herself through her damp panties, she comes again immediately, barely able to stifle a loud moan at the intensity of it.

Lying there afterwards, confused and exhausted she realises she’s hungry, thirsty too and getting up and downstairs towards the kitchen is a journey not long enough to give her time to fix her disheveled appearance, cool the heat in her cheeks, her eyes still glowing, lips pink and plump, blood coursing quickly in her veins.

The dimmed LED lights under the worktop shelves are on. She thinks nothing of it until she turns the corner and he’s standing there by the kitchen island in boxers and band shirt, tousled, sleepy, scooping up a spoonful of dessert from the bowl and slowly licking it off the spoon, head tilting back and throat working as his eyes flutter shut at the sensation.

Deja-vu slams into her hard when she hears her own voice drift back towards her through a sudden haze of duplication. “What do we have here?”

***

In the sun-filled kitchen they all stare at her in the morning. Three pairs of eyes, her brother’s particularly glaring with annoyance, still holding the empty dessert bowl. Before she can even open her mouth to allocate the blame, at least partition it, a warm hand lands on the small of her back and a sleep-raspy voice speaks up from behind her in a guilt-infused, low baritone.

“I am so sorry. I woke up in the night with a bad case of the munchies and I’m afraid I finished all of your excellent pudding.”

His face is a study of well-played remorse and while the others walk away a moment later, laughing, aquiescent, her brother’s anger oh so easily dissipated, because _Anything for his brother from another mother!_ she shares a secret glance of sworn companionship over her shoulder with the Brit, half turning in his embrace.

For a moment his gaze drops to her lips and turns intense, becomes something else at the grateful smile she gives him, his hand squeezing her hip as he holds her close but the next he steps away from her, winks and answers with one of his own smiles: dimpled and dazzlingly bright and enough to raise a warm fuzzy feeling of anticipation in her!

 

**Epilogue**

She takes off her pyjama, stands naked in front of the full length mirror in her room for a moment, surprised that there is no outline in the shape of a large hand on her back or hip where he has touched her earlier in the kitchen. The memory of it still so intense, almost painful, that it could well be a burn.

Since the concert she has started to collect all these small, incidental touches and if they could be made visible on the canvas of her body she’d be a work of art by now.  

She knows he’s trying to stay away. Struggling. And failing, a little bit each day with each subconscious gesture. He has made her promise not to force the issue while she has made him promise…

Reaching for a yellow sundress she smiles in elated expectation of the things to come. Eleven reasons. And only ten more months before she turns 18.


End file.
